


Out Of The Blue

by nimrodcracker



Series: a blinding flash [12]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Cait-centric, Gen, Spoilers, Too Much Shooting, What-If, and blood, dealing with grief, gore too, some yelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5883559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrodcracker/pseuds/nimrodcracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cait watches her closest friend sink to her knees, hands bloodied from plugging the hole in her side.</p><p>A different take on In Sheep's Clothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> So Deacon wonders how the Sole Survivor hasn't been shot by a sniper yet, the way they walk in the open. Got distracted during a lecture, and this idea refused to let up.

It happens too quietly.

They're in Diamond City, descending the stairs into the city proper. Adrián's ran off, way ahead of her, just 'cause her girl's waitin' for her outside Publick Occurrences. Like the lovebirds they are, they swoop into each other's waitin' arms - and are smoochin' in front of everyone in no time.

Icky it may be, seein' the both of 'em so goddamn happy warms whatever ounce of flesh she has left of her heart. Hardly ever happens, but Cait smiles all the way down the stairs.

When Cait's close enough, a cheeky remark's poised to fall from her lips, but she's distracted first. Somethin' glints in the distance, in the corner of her vision, so she turns ever so slightly to see it better. Damned sunlight's probably reflecting off McDonough's office windows, but she looks anyway.

Words echo in the back of her mind, uninvited. _The muzzle flash really brings out the colour of your eyes._ Her muscles clench in reflex.

Cait launches herself at the pair, but she isn't quick enough.

~

 _Bang_.

Ever so quiet, ever so deadly. A gunshot smothered by a suppressor.

" _Blue!_ " 

Piper shrieks, Adrián staggers. Both their hands are painted crimson - Adrián's from clutching her bloodied side, Piper's from the spray of blood.

Adrián is falling: sinking to her knees, dragging Piper down with the arm wrapped around her shoulder. The lovers, locked in their fatal embrace.

Two seconds of shock - deathly, unadulterated _horror_  - before the hush around 'em shatters in an explosion of movement.

More shouts ring out. A flurry of words in an assortment of tones and pitches, but they say the same thing: Mayor McDonough. Synth. Assassin. _Murderer_.

They all fly over her head. Shotgun unholstered, Cait's already sprinting to the wire elevator as fast as her legs can carry her.


	2. Anger

"Fucking hell!" Cait yells, when smashing the red button doesn't send the elevator rising to the mayor's office.

Her fist throbs, but she slams it on the button again. And again. She exhales anger: anger is familiar, anger is _her_.

A hand taps her shoulder and she whirls, her shotgun raised. "There another lift, or do I have to climb up the bloody wall?" she growls at the officer, and he shrinks back a fraction.

"F-follow me," he gulps. A beat, before adding, "Miss."

 _Scatterbrain_. Pathetic behaviour like this makes her laugh - but not today. She shoves past him with a harrumph, articulating to nobody in particular the exact number of pieces the mayor will be in when she's done with him.

She doesn't notice the crowd gathered near Mega Surgery. Not 'cause of chems fogging up her head, no, not since the goddamn chair in Vault 95. It's the fury, clogging her thoughts and blotting out sense in visceral red except the singular instinct to _fuck_  McDonough _over_. Anger is useful, grief isn't. Thinking of her friend now will make her weak, and weakness is water to her fire.

Just as Cait decides to smack him with her shotgun, scatterbrain _finally_  spits out the plan about the other elevator at Diamond City's entrance. She takes off, climbing three steps at a time and leaving him scrambling to keep up - which is how she wants it. Scatterbrain's a liability, and liabilities ain't worth a second of her time.

Only one thing will satisfy her now. Whatever happens, she _will_  wipe the floor with the bastard mayor, and she _will_  paint that pristine office floor of his with his blood.

She arrives breathing heavily, but she's not breathless. Rage is a better chem than Psycho can ever be.

Sullivan doesn't dick around with needless words. "Quickly!" he shouts, bundling her into the waiting elevator, and she smacks away the hand on her shoulder.

Everythin's been passing in a whirl, yet the moment can't come soon enough, Cait thinks, when the elevator ascends with a groan. Sullivan and two other officers are with her, all three shifting on their feet, while she's counting the seconds between breaths - three seconds for her, one for them. 

There's a killer in here, and she's sure it ain't them.

Sullivan snaps her back to reality with a cock of his head. "I always knew the mayor disliked Adrián, but to this extent? Unbelievable."

The lift _dings_  once and they file out into the office, guns at the ready.

"The fuck I know," Cait mutters, noticing that the dolled-up secretary isn't at her desk. "He's gettin' an ass-kickin' when I get inside."

The doors don't budge when she flings herself against them. With a curse, she starts hitting it with the butt of her shotgun. The rest follow suit.

"Just blow his brains out," another officer dismisses with a sneer. "I think he's a synth. Who else would want to kill her?"

Sullivan gasps, his gun held mid-raise. "Shit, Calder. The _Institute_. Or what's left of it."

Wasn't that obvious? Gee, she's stuck with a bunch of _idiots_. "I don't give a _shit_ about who he is." Cait slams her rifle a touch harder and the door dents. "My friend's bleedin' out down there, so he's gonna die. End o' story."

"Hey, hey." Sullivan's rattled - Cait hears his voice quaver. Fuckin' trash heads, the whole lot of 'em. "No one's doubting that, sister. Be my guest."

He's backed off, edging to the secretary's desk and closer to the frickin' red _button_  on its underside. 

Sullivan presses it, and the doors burst open.

~

Cait knows she's absolute shite at talking others down.

So when she barges into the office, she doesn't bother openin' her mouth. She just opens fire.

A spray of shells rearranges the mayor's rifle arm in pieces. Another blows his legs out from under him. All that passing in a blink.

Laserfire singes Cait's calf and she buckles. With a snarl, she raises her gun at the skeletal synth (how the _fuck_?) responsible, but it explodes in a mass of circuitry and metal first. Soot and dust fill her lungs, but she's already burning on the inside.

The mayor whimpers when Cait turns to him, and she knows it's not because of the liquid gushing from his bleeding stumps. Four letters define her, and it isn't just her name.

Her chuckles drown in the clamour of her gunshots, and McDonough's an unrecognisable mess soon enough. His blood and flesh's so enmeshed in a sponge-like pile that it soaks up every last round she pumps into it.

Though she's down to her final clip, she isn't done yet. She cocks her shotgun clumsily, blood-slicked gloves slipping on smooth metal, and aims it at at the largest chunk of McDonough that's left. Her finger curls, and she pulls the trigger.

Flecks of gore line her hair and smear her boots, but she doesn't stop pulling.

Someone's been screamin' the last few moments, but Cait doesn't realise that it's the secretary begging _her_  to stop. When Cait does, there's only one answer: _fuck_  that.

Once her shotgun clicks uselessly on bullets made of air, she crushes the bastard's skull under her boots.

If her friend's dead, deader than dead's what this _fucker_ deserves.

~

(but why had she bothered with this? even with a head scrubbed clean of chemical haze, her thoughts are as clear as her conscience)


	3. Sadness

Surprisingly, Cait doesn't have to elbow her way through the mass of bodies to the clinic. The crowd inexplicably parts for her, though it's possibly due to her looking like she's just rolled in a puddle of blood.

Curtains have been draped around the clinic, shielding its goings-on from prying eyes - but not the sounds. Cait hears the sickening squelch of flesh and her gut twists. She almost falters, only to spot a familiar fedora at the noodle shop.

"Hey!" Cait calls out. She doesn't know what the fuck is goin' on but she isn't that brainless to barge into the clinic. "Valentine, that you?"

It is, and he meets her eyes with a nod. Doesn't say shit when she sits beside him at the counter, though. Just moons over his drink.

 _Na-ni shimasu-ka?_ the noodle bot turns to her, spouting its gibberish, but she shuts it out.

"Adrián," Cait rasps, the jitters under her skin tipping her closer to the edge. "Is she alright?"

Valentine doesn't answer. His yellow eyes bore into Takahashi, who's back at the cooking fire to do Christ-knew-what.

She grinds her jaw. Why isn't he saying anythin'? "Valentine, you deaf or-"

He cuts her off with a glare, a silent plea in his expression. "Piper," he mouths, tilting his head to his left, and Cait almost slaps herself.

 _Shite_ , she thinks, seeing the reporter hunched over a steaming bowl: still as a statue, blotches of red on her collar and cheeks. Fork in hand, glass of water in another, but no closer to eatin' her noodles. There's no fire left in that body, Cait thinks, all of it snuffed out by that single shot. No wonder she hadn't recognised her.

Half of her wants to throw nice words Piper's way, but she'll probably piss her off or sound like a stone-cold bitch. Maybe both. In other words, _screw it_. Valentine's probably done that already, and he's a hell lot better in dealing with this kind of shite.

Goodbye to findin' out how Adrián's doin', then. Crass as she may be, she hasn't been sucked dry of human decency.

Cait feels the adrenaline wearin' off, way faster than Psycho's lightheaded feel-good, and she instinctively reaches for a hit that isn't there - well, _almost_. She's sworn off chems for good. For Adrián's sake. Damn her if she ever picked up another canister of Psycho.

But in the stillness, she can feel the... _feelings_  crawl back to her, skittering all over her skin and sliding into her thoughts. _She's dead._  Chems and alcohol ain't gonna save her now; the numbness of before's been scoured clean, _every_ drop of it, and there ain't a grimy mirror to filter her perception of the world no more. Returns with a vengeance, it does, surging like a tidal wave. Seeps into every pore and crevice of her being.

 _Dying_.

" _Fuck_." Cait buries her head in her hands.

Valentine doesn't chew her head off for her language, so she knows they're well and truly _fucked_.


	4. Bargaining

One day since Doc Sun came out of the clinic frownin' and Piper hasn't left Adrián's side. Not even for food, let alone a shower. 'S far as Cait's concerned, it means she has two kids to babysit now.

Fine, Valentine swings by to watch Nat and Nat knows how to clean up after herself, so that kid doesn't really count.

But Piper? _Goddamn_. Took Cait a full frickin' hour of talkin' just to coax her outta the bleedin' chair.

Haulin' the woman's sorry arse back to Publick Occurrences hadn't been the last of it. Just as Cait wanted to slink out for a pint at Bobrov's place, Piper had grabbed her wrist like she was tryin' to strangle a synth. The woman flat-out _refused_  to let go, until Cait promised to watch over Adrián.

 _Christ_. Love is a fuckton of _weird_.

Minutes later, Cait finds herself alone with a comatose lady in the clinic at three in the morning. _With_  a bottle of Bobrov's moonshine.

It isn't like Cait even _wanted_  to be here. Sittin' by the bed, it hurt. It fucking _hurt_  to see her friend wrapped up in bandages like a shambler and hooked to an IV drip like a wretched invalid. Cait knows she could've done better, could've been _faster_  because _it was her one fucking job_  to watch Adrián's back. Should've done better, because Adrián's done nothing but that for her since Tommy dumped her sorry arse on her, and Cait. _Failed_. Her.

Should've been her, Cait thinks. Should've been her catchin' that bullet in the gut 'cause nobody gave a fuck about her. Nobody who'll miss her if she's finally stomped into the dirt. Adrián had Piper, her kid, even Nat. Heck, the woman had _everythin_ ' to look forward to.

Cait didn't. Bet the only person who gave a shite about her was Adrián, but with the fuckton of friends she has she probably won't miss one. Especially that poor, pitiful ex-junkie.

Sure, Cait's spat out once that she ain't stupid enough to take a bullet for anyone, but this? Losin' a friend ain't worth it.

But she stays put. Though her mind shreds itself to mash with every side-long glance at her friend, Cait doesn't leave.

There's not much a fucked-up waste of space can offer, but it's the least she can do. Won't ever pay off her debt to the woman, but at least it's _somethin_ '.

~

(and now, she knows)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, there was a Hunger Games reference.


	5. Denial

Time for Cait is measured by the number of bodies that pile around her, because findin' a working clock in this shithole of a world's way harder than pissin' blood.

She's discovered, to her immense glee, that raiders have moved in to the hidey-holes scattered in the neighbourhoods surrounding Diamond City. Hangman's Alley, Hardware Town, Mass Pike Interchange. The idiots live in them like rats, so that's how she deals with 'em. Squish them dead like vermin, shoot 'em clean like pests.

On good days, she racks up a body count of ten, eleven sometimes. Other times, she's lucky to scrape past four.

She hasn't had to worry about ammo. Every mornin', they miraculously appear, strapped to her bandolier with no note nor hint of who put 'em there. Might've been the Commonwealth Weaponry fellow or even Valentine, but that had to mean they gave a shit about her - which they don't, so she doesn't know how they get there.

Needless to say, she uses them all.

Valentine's offered to watch her back whenever she stomps out of the city gates in a restless fit, and this is what she thinks of it.

_Fuck off, tincan. I deal with grief like how I live my life - alone._

Her answer hasn't changed. It never will.

Yet, he doesn't stop askin'. The grief's probably fried his circuits.

Five incidents later, she realises that yellin' at him makes her feel loads better. Makes her wonder if he's doing it on purpose. Not like she does much thinkin' in the first place.

So instead of bodies, she counts the number of times Valentine pisses her off. Three makes it a day, and he's managed it over eight times already.

Only normal people used clocks, and she ain't one.

 

 

Jesus, who is she _kiddin_ '? Because screwin' her mind over with ridiculously shitty ways of tellin' the time is fuckloads better than dwellin' on how close Adrián's gettin' to that deadline of no return.

_Seventy-two hours,_ Doc Sun said the other day in his pompously prim voice.

In three hours, they'll cross the seventy-hour mark.


	6. Acceptance

Cait's favourite part of Diamond City is the stands.

She loves how she has to leapfrog over rusted railings and plastic seats as she ascends, just for a nice spot overlookin' the market. Most of all, it gives her a shit ton of space, and space is what she craves now, what with the fuckery of the last few days. Her tolerance for banal shite has plunged beyond zero.

"Hey, Cait?"

She doesn't stop inspecting the cuts on her knuckles. Ain't a wringer to recognise who's approaching her, 'cause everyone else stays ten feet clear. "Oh, so _now_  you talk."

The stands are completely deserted, but Piper doesn't sit. A deep sigh, before she speaks. "D'you know where McDonough is? I wanna know why he did it. Diamond City needs to know the truth."

" _Ha_." Cait's had to bundle her fists in tape. Punching rogue robots hours ago had spilt open her knuckles, but she'll gladly do it again. "You're outta luck, sweetheart. He's in a thousand tiny pieces."

"A thousand tiny..." Cait can almost imagine the gears turnin' in Piper's head. 'S well as the growing frown. "You _killed_  him?"

"Hell _fucking_  yeah. Bastard got what he deserved." Cait recalls how McDonough resembled Brahmin paste at the end, and she smiles. "Heck, I'd have chucked him to the muties, but damned security snatched him from me hands first."

It's the only regret Cait has from the last few days. Riling Piper up now with thoughts of casual violence ain't one.

Cait thinks she's scared the lady off (oh _goody_ ), but Piper shuffles closer. "Cait, how could you?"

Cait tucks in the tape ends, flexing her fingers to test the tautness of the wrappings. The shitstorm's comin' and she's lookin' forward to it. "How could I what, sweetie? The fucker killed her so I killed him back, tit-for-tat."

"Adrián wouldn't have wanted you to kill for her!"

Cait glances up, watchin' how the shadows outlinin' Piper's red eyes made her look shitty. 'Course, refusin' to sleep did that to ya. "You dreamin' or somethin'? The lady would've loved it."

"No." Piper furiously shakes her noggin. Cait notices how her clenched fists are shaking. "She wouldn't."

_Be nice_ , Adrián would tell her in times like these, but ya know what? Fuck that. Piper can stick her righteous, kiddy attitude up her arse. Cait decides she's sick of takin' in Piper's crap. Is she the only one here who's lost someone? Hell _no_.

She looks Piper straight in the eye. "'Course she would. You think I'm cookin' up this shite?"

"Why the hell not? You've been shooting yourself up with Psycho your whole life and I bet you can't tell the difference between what's real and what isn't!"

Cait stiffens. Sure, she's already pissed, but Piper's just smashed _all_  her buttons. Cause she's strugglin' to _be nice_ , her words come out disjointed and a hell-lot robotic. "Call me a junkie one more time-" Cait breathes oh-so-quietly "-and I'll _rip_  your fucking throat out."

Evidently, whatever sense between Piper's ears wasn't around today - not like Cait expected otherwise. What she hadn't expected was _why_  the woman was itchin' for a brawl.

"Oh yeah," Piper grins, lookin' absolutely nuts. "You're one messed-up lady and I _cannot_  understand how Adrián's friends with a junkie like you."

That's it, Cait thinks. That's _fucking_  it.

She shoots to her feet. " _Fuck_  yo-"

"Stop it!"

Cait staggers; she collapses on her seat, fist bludgeoning air. Someone's barrelled into her, and she's even more surprised to see that it's Piper's _kid sister._  Would've laughed too, marvellin' how this scrawny kiddo's fearlessly standin' between two people with murder in their eyes. But Cait's too pissed for that.

Nat's hanging off her sister's arm so tight that Cait's already waitin' for the sound of snapping bones. "Sis, please. _Don't_. Arguing won't bring her back. She wouldn't want her two most precious women in her life to fight, wouldn't she?"

It's quiet, Cait notes, while nursin' the ache in her side. Suddenly too quiet for a tuesday mornin' where Myrna's daily special is brahmin steak. Screw everythin' if the whole town's listenin' in on their hissyfit.

Piper chews on her words, still starin' at Cait like fresh meat. "I suppose not."

Cait isn't sure if Piper sounded frickloads disappointed, 'cause if she is, Cait _can't_ fucking believe it.

"Fuck this shite," Cait grumbles, grabbing her shotgun from a nearby seat as she stands. "I'm goin' out. Shootin' stuff's better than dealin' with this crap."

Diamond City's too bloody annoyin' today, what with sticks up all their arses. She bothered stayin' only 'cause of a certain someone - too bad she ain't wakin' up anytime soon.

She hasn't eaten properly for days. Everythin' tastes bland to her, even the bleedin' noodles that she's taken a shine to thanks to Adrián.

So she does what she does best: board the fuckin' train wreck called 'her life'.

* * *

Cait isn't wrong on one count, though. If it isn't the whole town eavesdropping on their argument, it's a Railroad agent and a synth detective from their spot at Power Noodles. Not near enough to discern their exact words, but close enough to hear how they're verbally tearing each other to shreds.

"They're taking this _so_ well," Deacon remarks. Nick can't decide if he's being rueful or just...sarcastically himself.

He sighs into his noodles. "Indeed they are. You're shadowing her this time, right?"

"Yessir. Because stalking people is a hobby of mine. No, seriously. It is. Dez pays me for that."

Was that a lie? Sometimes, Nick can't tell the difference - and he's long given up trying to. "Go on, then. I still don't understand why you refuse to let Piper know that you're around."

Deacon wiggles his eyebrows. "All part of the charm, detective. I love to stay mysterious."

He adjusts the fedora on his head and walks off without a second word.

_Kids_ , Nick sighs again, before looking to the pair sitting at the stands. His neck catches momentarily as he turns; time to tinker with himself again, it seems.

He leaves only when the pair on the stands does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are named after the different stages of grief, but they aren't in order. The guideline isn't supposed to be definitive in the first place, so yeah, variations aren't uncommon.


	7. The Aftermath

MacCready picks up on the whiff of Brahmin leather way before the thudding of boots. It's enough for him to put down his Grognak comic, in time to watch a man in a cowboy hat jog up to him.

Good thing about lingering near the clinic's entrance: it's an excellent vantage point for Diamond City's marketplace.

Preston wheezes as he nears, dumping his musket and satchel unceremoniously on the ground. "I came as soon as I could," he pants, leaning on his musket like a walking stick. "How's the General?"

On a upturned crate beside him, Cait makes a noise at the title, but otherwise continues wiping her shotgun.

MacCready looks over at the pitfighter for a split-second, before turning back. "Not good," he answers, gesturing at a crate by his feet, filled with unopened bottles of Nuka-Cola. Preston shakes his head. "Doc says she has three days to wake up, if not she's done for. It's day five and counting."

Preston droops his shoulders, just enough to make MacCready wince. Garvey's always been a wellspring of positivity: why not now? "Of all people, it just has to be her. She was the best of us."

"She's a tough nut to crack, Garvey." MacCready's unsure about who he's trying to reassure. "Don't write her off just yet."

"Pfft," Cait interjects. She drops her polish cloth in accident and curses. "Too fuckin' optimistic, MacCready. Her exit wound's as big as my fist. If her guts ain't dissolvin' in stomach acid, it's a goddamn miracle."

MacCready hides his surprise behind mild annoyance. Nick hadn't mentioned that. "Man, c'mon. Her heart's still beating, right? That's a good sign."

Cait refuses to match his gaze. Seems her shotgun's more interesting to her this moment, even though it's already gleaming like a mirror.

He searches instead for Preston's face, but the Minuteman is grim. There's no light-hearted crinkling of skin around his eyes, not even the ghost of an easy smile.

MacCready's eyes go wide. "Shit, Garvey. You actually think so too?"

"As much as I hate to admit it, Cait's right." If he has to guess, Preston's forcing out those words. He must be. "It's how the wasteland works."

A muffled groan silences MacCready's acerbic reply. Instead, all three of them swivel to the flap of cloth, serving as the clinic's makeshift door. They don't speak; their language is the breath caged inside their throats, the flicker of hope sparking inside their chests.

But nothing. MacCready's tempted to hiss at the false alarm, but the noise sounds again.

Cait's the first to her feet, spotless gun and polish paraphernalia tumbling into dirt.

~

Her pulse thunders in her ears, body tremblin' with a sensation only the frenzy in the pit can gift her.

She thought her ears were screwin' with her - _again_  - 'cause she hasn't been sleepin' well. Gettin' pissed drunk on moonshine hasn't been workin' that well too, not when she wakes up with ragin' migraines every other mornin'. She can't keep lyin' to herself: she's a tightly-wound spring.

The second time she hears it, she snaps. Her limbs kick into overdrive. No one else groans like a diseased Brahmin.

Though it ain't somethin' she hasn't seen before, Cait's still struck dumb by the sight beyond the veil. She can't wrap her frickin' head around how Adrián's breathin', even after a bullet's ripped through her gut. Cait's waitin' for it, for the moment when Adrián will _magically_  choke on somethin' and _die_  so she's too petrified to move, lest it truly happens. Cait knew better than anyone that wasteland only took and took and hardly gave; her shitfest of a life had been that.

Adrián's still sprawled on the bed, bubblegum pink hair damp on her fringe, but her eyelids aren't squeezed shut. She lifts her head a fraction, her gaze fallin' on Cait, only to have the biggest, shit-eatin' grin mar that ashen face. Deacon's work, Cait reckons.

"Didn't think I'd see you here." Like the aftermath of ransacking a cooler filled with booze, Adrián butchers her words with god-awful slurrin'. "Whoever knew McDonough could shoot so many people dead."

Cait blows out a stuttered breath. Croakin' like a mirelurk perhaps, but definitely _not_  dead. " _Jesus_. I'm callin' Piper."

It's strange how her limbs are a fuckton lighter now. Cait bulldozes through the two figures at the entrance and back out into the half-light of dusk, strugglin' to keep herself from fallin' over in giddy joy. Publick Occurences is just across the clinic, but it feels like tryin' to cross a chasm.

Despite the distance between 'em, Adrián's reply is loud and clear. "Just how many people did he shoot dead?"

"Not nearly enough!" Cait flings the door open, giving no fucks about it bangin' against the wall because she's caught Piper wolfin' down her third bowl of Sugar Bombs on her red couch, eyes unfocused and faded gray tee still rumpled by sleep.

Cait lets a grin crack her face in two, and Piper's suddenly shovin' past her with the grace of a cannonball.

She ain't do it often, but Cait finally lets herself slide down the doorframe into a crouch, too worn out pretend anymore. She's been bottlin' up her fears like fine wine, dreadin' the thought of bein' alone so soon after discovering what she's missed her whole life - which fuckin' _sucked_ , by the way.

Now, hearin' the yells comin' from the clinic, she all but smashes that metaphorical bottle of nasty against the wall like how she would for a whole crate of chems.

Icky it may be, the mere thought of knowing' that Adrián's alive has her grinnin' like a fool, and she doesn't think she'll stop anytime soon.  

Until Deacon pisses her off by nickin' her boots, that is.


End file.
